


how could i let you fall by yourself?

by senseless_leigh



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, First Kiss, Post-COI, victor hugo i don't know how you ended up in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 04:27:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30016107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senseless_leigh/pseuds/senseless_leigh
Summary: What I think might happen, one night in Paris.
Relationships: Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale, Cordelia Carstairs/Matthew Fairchild, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	how could i let you fall by yourself?

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Paris" by The Chainsmokers.

Five minutes ago, Cordelia had invited Matthew back to her hotel room.

“No, I shouldn’t,” he’d said at first. “It’s improper.” 

But Cordelia had just laughed, open and loud into the cold air, because when had Matthew ever been concerned about propriety? The night was young, the champagne was making her dizzy, and she didn’t want to say goodbye. So Cordelia insisted, telling Matthew she’d pour him a glass of pinot noir when they got back, and he relented, letting Cordelia take him by the arm and drag him up the extra flight of stairs to her hotel room. 

Cordelia was in the bathroom now, standing in front of the mirror. She’d gone in to scrub the rouge off her cheeks, but now she stood before the glass, pulling at a pin her hair that poked painfully into the back of her head. She hissed as it let loose a section of her hair -- then, knowing there was no point keeping it up now, she pulled the rest of the pins free until her hair came down entirely. She ran a brush through it, studying herself in the mirror. 

Cordelia looked happier than she’d felt a week ago. 

Paris, with its beautiful, sweeping boulevards and rain-drenched streets, had been immeasurably good for her. Its poets, its performers and its art scene -- which was as thriving as it was scandalous -- had breathed new life into her. 

Maybe Matthew had, too. 

Cordelia stepped out of the bathroom, looking for him. The doors to the balcony were flung open, and Matthew stood outside, looking out at the view over the Avenue des Champs Elysées. The wine, Cordelia noticed, remained untouched on the small table in the middle of the room. 

“What do you think we’ll do tomorrow?” she asked. “I hear the Pantheon is an experience.”

Cordelia had walked up right next to him, and she shivered in the Parisian night. Matthew did a double-take when he saw her; he wasn’t used to seeing her with her hair unbound, she realised. She quickly pulled it to the side.

“Why visit the catacombs when we could visit Montmartre again? You know how fond I am of its houses of ill repute.”

Cordelia smiled. “We can’t spend all our time at the Moulin Rouge, Matthew.”

“But wasn’t it glorious last night?”

It had been. Cordelia would never forget the spectacle of it: the flashing lights, the bright skirts, the scantily clad women and their vivid red lipstick. She’d never seen anything like it before.

“I’ll admit, it was,” Cordelia said. She sighed. “I’m afraid you’re turning me into a bohemian.”

Matthew shot her a wicked grin. “Perfect. Mission accomplished.”

Cordelia elbowed him, but the grin never left his face. Matthew’s gaze returned to the Champs Elysees, and they stood there together in perfect, companionable silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia studied him. Even in the faint light of the stars and the streetlamps, Matthew had a glow about him. His hair, curling softly about his temples, shone in twenty shades of gold. He had always been beautiful -- she’d said so the first night she met him -- but now he seemed happy, too. Somehow, it made all the difference.

Cordelia thought about their week in Paris. They’d been to the Louvre to see Michelangelo’s sculptures; she’d gone to the top of the Eiffel Tower for the first time; Matthew lit a candle for her father at Notre-Dame and then she’d made a wish on Pointe Zero. Cordelia dined on salmon en papillote at Maxim’s; she laughed with Matthew as they strolled along Pont Alexandre, on their way to see an exhibition at the Grand Palais. Even now, looking back, it felt like a dream. A colourful, wonderful dream.

“We’ll go to the Pantheon tomorrow,” Matthew said suddenly. “You can visit the tomb of Victor Hugo, or Voltaire, or any miserable old French writer you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Cordelia said, genuinely pleased. Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she added, “Victor Hugo isn’t miserable.”

Matthew raised his eyebrows. “Did you read the same Les Miserables I did?” he said, emphasising the word ‘miserables’. “They’re all depressed. It’s in the title.”

Cordelia shook her head, smiling in spite of herself, amused by his bluntness. In the dim yellow light, Matthew reminded her of Enjolras, who had been her favourite character in the book, with his shock of golden blond hair and beautiful, fair features. 

“It’s about hope,” she said. “And love.”

Matthew’s gaze, bright and steady and green, was fixed on her. Eventually, he said, “Eponine dies.”

Cordelia stilled. Eponine had bled to death on the streets of Paris. Eponine, who had loved Marius hopelessly. Eponine, who knew Marius would never love her as he loved Cosette. 

Matthew was no Enjolras.

After several moments had passed, during which Cordelia still hadn’t responded, Matthew said softly, “I’m going back to my room. Goodnight, Cordelia.”

Cordelia reached out to grab his wrist. His pulse beat quickly beneath her fingertips.

“No,” she said. “Stay.”

Matthew pulled his hand free. He swallowed, and when he spoke next, his voice sounded strained. 

“Cordelia, what are you still doing here? In Paris. It’s been a week, and -- you don’t need to stay any longer. Not if you want to go home.”

But Cordelia didn’t. She couldn’t explain it. Paris was a living, breathing thing, and she needed to stay with it. She needed the lights, and the history, and the fashion, and Matthew by her side.

Cordelia took Matthew’s hand again, watching him inhale as she brushed her thumb over the sensitive skin of the inside of his wrist. She had no idea what she was doing. But she wasn’t going to stop.

“I want to be here,” she said. “With you.”

Matthew looked almost pained. “Don’t say that. I --”

Before she could think on it any longer, before she could talk herself out of it, Cordelia kissed him. She closed the gap between them and kissed him firmly, deeply, and Matthew gasped into her mouth in surprise. Cordelia had absolutely no idea what she was doing, but it felt sublime. In that moment, she never wanted it to end. Matthew brought his hands up to cup her face, kissing her back, and she felt hot all over, even in the chill of the night. She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her as he pushed her up against the railing, the metal firm against her back, and she moved to pull him even closer -- then Matthew drew away. 

He whispered something, his voice hoarse and broken. It sounded like -- 

"James," Cordelia repeated. She flinched. “This isn’t about James."

“No, it is,” he said. “You’re -- you're my parabatai’s wife.”

“Matthew --”

“I have to go,” he said. ”Now.”

Cordelia reached for him yet again, but he avoided her. Before she could say another word, Matthew was gone entirely.

She stared after him, her head spinning. 

When Cordelia slipped into bed that night, she couldn’t fall asleep, plagued by thoughts of the three of them. All of a sudden, it seemed that Paris was laughing at her.


End file.
